“Where are we going?”
She drops my hand and slows down until we’re walking next to each other. I want to put my arm around her so that she doesn’t trip over her “heels,” but I also know that she’s probably slowly sobering up, so I highly anticipate her coming to her senses soon. I doubt she wants me near her, much less with my arm around her.
“We’re almost there,” she says, rummaging through her purse. She stumbles a few times and each time, my hands fly up, preparing to break her fall, but somehow she always recovers.
She pulls her hand out of her purse and holds it up, jiggling a set of keys so close to my face they touch my nose. “Keys,” she says. “Found ’em.”
She smiles like she’s proud of herself, so I smile with her. She swings her arm against my chest so that I stop walking. She points to the salon we’re now standing in front of, and my hand immediately flies up to my hair in a protective response.
She inserts the key in the lock and sadly, the door opens with ease. She pushes it and motions for me to walk in first. “Lights are on the left by the door,” she says. I turn to my left and she says, “No, O-wen. The other left.”
I keep my smile in check and reach to the right and flip the lights on. I watch her walk with purpose toward one of the stations. She drops her purse on the counter and then grips the back of the salon chair and spins it around to face me. “Sit.”
This is so bad. What guy would allow an inebriated girl to come near him with a pair of scissors?
A guy who stood up said inebriated girl and feels really guilty about it.
I inhale a nervous breath as I take a seat. She spins me around until I’m facing the mirror. Her hand lingers over a selection of combs and scissors as if she’s a surgeon attempting to decide what tool she wants to slice me open with.
“You’ve really let yourself go,” she says as she grabs a comb. She stands in front of me and concentrates on my hair as she begins to comb through it. “Are you at least showering?”
I shrug. “Occasionally.”
She shakes her head, disappointed, as she reaches behind her for the scissors. When she faces me again, her expression is focused. As soon as the scissors begin to come at me, I panic and try to stand up.
“Owen, stop,” she says, pushing my shoulders back against the chair. I try to gently brush her aside with my arm so I can stand, but she shoves me back in the chair again. The scissors are still in her left hand, and I know it’s not intentional, but they’re a little too close to my throat for comfort. Her hands are on my chest and I can tell I just made her angry with my failed attempt at escaping.
“You need a haircut, Owen,” she says. “It’s okay. I won’t charge you, I need the practice.” She brings one of her legs up and presses her knee onto my thigh, then brings the other leg up and does the same. “Be still.” Now that she physically has me locked to my chair, she lifts herself up and begins messing with my hair.
She doesn’t have to worry about my trying to escape now that she’s in my lap. That won’t happen.
Her chest is directly in front of me, and even though her button-up shirt isn’t at all revealing, the fact that I’m this close to such an intimate part of her has me glued to my seat. I gently lift my hands to her waist to keep her steady.
When I touch her, she pauses what she’s doing and looks down at me. Neither of us speaks, but I know she feels it. I’m too close to her chest not to notice her reaction. Her breath halts right along with mine.
She looks away nervously as soon as we make eye contact and she begins snipping at my hair. I can honestly say I’ve never had my hair cut quite like this before. They aren’t as accommodating at the barbershop.
I can feel the scissors sawing through my hair and she huffs. “Your hair is really thick, Owen.” She says it like it’s my fault and it’s irritating her.
“Aren’t you supposed to wet it first?”
Her hands pause in my hair as soon as I ask her that question. She relaxes and lowers herself until her thighs meet her calves. We’re eye to eye now. My hands are still on her waist and she’s still on my lap and I’m still thoroughly enjoying the position of this spontaneous haircut, but I can see from the sudden trembling of her bottom lip that I’m the only one enjoying it.
Her arms fall limply to her sides and she drops the scissors and the comb on the floor. I can see the tears forming and I don’t know what to do to stop them, since I’m not sure what started them.
“I forgot to wet it,” she says with a defeated pout. She begins to shake her head back and forth. “I’m the worst hairdresser in the whole world, Owen.”
And now she’s crying. She brings her hands up to her face, attempting to cover her tears, or her embarrassment, or both. I lean forward and pull her hands away. “Auburn.”
She won’t open her eyes to look at me. She keeps her head tucked down and she shakes it, refusing to answer me.
“Auburn,” I say again, this time raising my hands to her cheeks. I hold her face in my hands, and I’m mesmerized by how soft she feels. Like a combination of silk and satin and sin, pressing against my palms.
God, I hate that I’ve already fucked this up so bad. I hate that I don’t know how to fix it.
I pull her toward me and surprisingly, she lets me. Her arms are still at her sides, but her face is buried against my neck now, and why did I fuck this up, Auburn?
I brush my hand over the back of her head and move my lips to her ear. I need her to forgive me, but I don’t know if she can do that without an explanation. The only problem is, I’m the one who reads the confessions. I’m not used to writing them and I’m certainly not used to speaking them. But I still need her to know that I wish things were different right now. I wish things would have been different three weeks ago.